Читать книгу Tripping Over - John Hickman - Страница 17

I had become a cynical young prat. But in my defence it wasn’t easy going through life with two blocked nostrils and an inflamed instep.

Our new sports master despaired at my lack of co-ordination. I lived in dread of his helpful hand. He’d hold my torso with one hand his other behind my neck as he attempted to force my head down further to touch my toes.

Dad was sympathetic. ‘You’ve inherited our family trait. Had our Creator intended us to be able to touch our toes they should have been put on our knees.’

I envied those with the ability to touch their ear with their big toe, although Dad was quick to point out, ‘Look! I can do it—with someone else’s.’

‘Come on, John, you know you can do it. Show him, David,’ our sports master instructed. Well it may have been easy for David to accomplish this simple task, but I had no chance.

I passed on to more serious stuff like their climbing bars. They were mounted on the gymnasium wall and designed as a style of stepladder. Those with minimal ability were able to climb up and perform swinging motions. A rare and talented few were able to emulate a chimpanzee. As students climbed higher the steps were further apart.

‘I think they’ve put the apparatus on the wall upside down,’ I whined. ‘Surely as you get higher the steps should be closer together?’

The framework was hinged, designed in a controlled swing from the wall, as a basis for preliminary trapeze work but I was no kind of a graceful gymnast. If I concentrated and never looked down, I could climb about half way up, which was about my own height from the ground. A flimsy rubber mat on the floor was positioned should a student fall.

Each week I was encouraged to climb a little higher up the bars. And each week, believing I’d made strides in a worthwhile direction, I attempted a higher level of accomplishment.

After some weeks I approached the top. I was euphoric. When I turned my head I could see cobwebs on the strip lights higher up, level now with my line of sight.

I looked down.

Catastrophe! I wasn’t my own height above floor level at all. I was a lot higher.

It looked higher when I focused downwards.

Terrified, I froze.

After a while a small crowd gathered. At first a few of my fellow classmates wanted to see what the fuss was about. As the news spread, more came. The crowd grew. Others came to view the excitement as some emergency had developed in the gymnasium. They saw me clung to my bar afraid to release my grip to get down.

Only when I’d been assured every rubber mat the school possessed had been stacked one on top of another, and below me, and I could feel the security of many hands ready to catch me, did I dare loosen my grip and allow myself to be helped down.

I finished up panting, face-up on the mats.

Afterwards they banned me from the bars but Dad was quick to support me.

‘I see no reason for you to do well at physical training,’ he said, ‘not unless you want to become an athlete.’

‘Were you an athlete, Dad?’

‘Not in the least.’

Next day two significant things happened. The old Talbot overheated and Dad had to borrow a watering can and use of a tap from a kind lady to top up his radiator. That reopened talks about their new car, and while they were discussing colours, we had an unexpected visitor.

Sandy had not seen Mum and Dad since I was a baby. He’d been Dad’s bomb aimer back in the RAF, and he brought me an expensive drum set from Harrods department store. He laughed and slapped Dad’s arm. ‘Your boy hitting that drum might remind you of knocking noises in motors, Bill.’

Dad became overly excited. He smoked more than usual, which had Mum trying to clear the air while he and Sandy consumed vast quantities of Scotch and soda. I was told if I wanted to play with my new toy I should go to the bedroom but I preferred to listen in.

After a while Sandy grew serious. ‘Our war, Bill, was it worth it, do you think?’

Dad was thoughtful before he replied. ‘No, of course it wasn’t. How could it be?

War has only ever been worthwhile for those who profit from it. We nearly paid with our lives.’

Both men became sad. They finished another bottle of whisky that Sandy had brought with him and Mum’s meal spoilt from being left too long in the oven. Sandy was invited to stay, but departed.

Afterwards there were angry words from Mum.

‘The war is over, Bill. You’re not the only survivor. You need to forget and move on with your life.’

Dad never replied. He was a million miles away. I believe clouds passed over the sun for him when the faces of dead friends now ghosts in his mind from the past returned to haunt him. And when they did, he disapproved of Mum’s attitude.

Dad didn’t speak to Mum for days after that. Not until she gave in and begged him for forgiveness, for whatever indiscretion he had committed. After Mum waved the white flag it was smiles all round and back on track until the next time.

We never saw Sandy again, which was a shame because when I got older I would have liked to thank him properly for the drum set.